Page 39

twenty-eight

Embers of Danger

A new day dawned. Birds twittered their delight beyond Heather’s open balcony.

The cot beside her was vacant, the smooth sheets cold under her palm.

She stretched, loosening her weary muscles in her legs and arms. Recalling Skye’s mention of a surprise, she rushed from bed.

After donning her plum robe, she slipped behind the panels of the changing screen.

There, on display, fitted to a dress form, was a magnificent ballgown.

It was a rose opal, reminding Heather of a moonbeam on reflective waters.

The dressmaker constructed the skirt from many layers, each rounded and sewn, one upon another as petals of a rose, in a ripe bloom.

Silver and crystal semi-precious jewels littered the rounded edges.

Even in the dark corner of the room, they twinkled with brilliance as if candle flame fractured off them.

The bodice was a silvery pink corset with laces up the back.

Long translucent blush pink, gauzy sleeves spilled from the shoulders, gathered at the elbows with a silver ribbon, where they cascaded loosely to the ground, with a split in the fabric from her elbow down.

A gossamer, transparent overdress, sewn from the same sheer fabric as the sleeves, shrouded the entire garment.

Heather circled the form as if entranced, unable to peel her eyes from it. Like a moth to a flame.

Above the low, square neckline, a sky-blue ribbon hung from the form’s neck. At the ribbon’s end, she found a scroll no longer than her forefinger. Heather detached it and unfurled the note. In a charming scrawl, she read:

‘For the lovely Lady Thistleby, under the light of the flower moon, this dress shall rival the goddess’ beams. Your own dear Luna moth will find it difficult to divert his eyes from thee.’ – Enisa.

The great dining hall table was once again overflowing with faerie specialties.

Heather’s eyes were bigger than her stomach.

A double layered brown cottage loaf glistened with butter under candle flame.

Her mouth watered at the sight. Small platters of strawberries, green grapes, and sweet melon graced the spread.

As well as salted boiled eggs and an assortment of specialty cheeses boasting a selection of flavors.

Skye retrieved Heather’s trencher from her place setting and proceeded to plate selections from the serving trays.

Stomach rumbling, instead of roiling, she took a moment to sit in her feelings.

She was happily surprised to be looking forward to this meal.

Her existence was no longer marked by the repasts of another.

There was a notable absence of fear in her gut.

As if aware of her biting hunger, Skye sat the plate down before her, not intending to feed her as he had done in the previous days.

“Please eat.” His deep voice was pleasant, but full of concern.

Heather couldn't help from worrying over what Jessa and Mae might be forced to consume as the kitchen garden was no doubt decimated at this point.

Heather recognized several dishes from Skye’s mother, magically preserved from the day she arrived in faerie.

The ‘Hibernation’ feast. She couldn’t help but smile.

The knowledge of what hibernation meant setting her cheeks aflame.

Mortification struck her after she recalled how she asked Rhoden what it was. And his reply that she should ask Skye.

Her love’s own plate brimmed full, vastly different from what he had been feasting on for days.

Cheeks flushing, Heather examined him. His hair was combed back, he was clad in a navy tunic with another drawstring collar, the long sleeves folded up to his elbows.

The muscles of his forearms flexed visibly when he reached for his chalice.

His emerald eyes met hers, full of adoration.

She saw his chest rise in a slow pull of air through his nostrils.

And that’s when she knew.

She was painfully aware he was cognizant of every instance her skin heated for him. He could literally sniff it out. She wanted to bury her head in the sand. Skye cleared his throat, smiling at her.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Moonbeam.” The cologne of his very being freshly perfuming the air. Heather swallowed thickly. Desiring a swift change of subject she asked, "Has Tarragon begun his journey back to the human castle?"

"Aye, he departed after we tracked ye down in the Mushlunds," his voice twisted into a growl.

"Surely, he'll find her this time. Mayhap he confused Jessa for another," said Heather.

Skye reassured her, "With the luck of the divine, he'll return with Jessa before the Flower Fete."

Heather had just finished another wide slice of bread covered in a healthy helping of butter when Rhoden rushed through the great hall doors, followed by a disgruntled Ella.

“He wouldn’t allow me to announce him,” The flustered handmaiden’s voice called out before her.

Skye growled. Skye stood from his seat in such a rush, his chair clattered to the floor. With his wings flared wide, he placed himself between Heather and Rhoden. Shielding Heather’s robe clad form from view.

“There’s no time for niceties! Lover boy, King Willems’ men have made it to the edge of the forest!” declared Rhoden.

Skye crossed his arms and glowered at his friend. Heather rose to her tiptoes, peering over his forewing.

Rhoden swiped the flagon of faerie wine from the tabletop, placed it to his mouth, pulling long steady gulps straight from it. Ella watched on in irritation.

Heather thought she heard Ella mutter. “How beastly.”

“If they dare harm a single tree…” Skye’s voice grated, promising swift revenge. Heather’s insides turned to ice with dread. She laid her palm over her heart, seeking to calm its fluttering. Her worst nightmare was coming to fruition. Her troubles from the human court followed her to faerie.

Rhoden wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the dark wine painting his lips.

“I have reports they’re making camp, but we must make haste.

” He pushed the flagon absentmindedly into the handmaiden’s hands, winking at Ella flirtatiously.

The female huffed at his audacity, a scowl on her elegant face.

Her moth wings fluttered rapidly at her back.

“What can be done?” Heather asked from behind the shelter of Skye’s lowered wings. Still trying to steady her heart.

“They named this forest the Wandering Wood for good reason. Father has placed scouts at the forest’s edge in the past. If soldiers find their way into the timberland, they’ll face the fate of wandering aimlessly until they breathe their last,” informed Skye.

Heather had heard tales, but to know that there was truth to them sent her heart into overtime.

“We must urge yer father to act. He can no longer deny that there is a threat. We’re lame ducks.” argued Rhoden, urgency filling his tone.

“I’d prefer to see the scope of their forces before we seek His Majesty out,” said Skye, as he looked to Heather, before inquiring, “Would ye like to accompany us?”

At the edge of the woods, Skye and Heather found refuge in a thicket of ferns at the base of a mighty oak.

Rhoden perched beside them just as Skye was lowering Heather to a span of flat rock below.

Skye pulled a fern frond down past their scope of vision, creating a shield and providing a clear view of the developing human encampment beyond.

Outside the forest, the skies were thunderous gray.

Dark clouds swirled above, a mighty tempest. Rain pounded the encampment.

More than a dozen linen triangle tents were already erected within the clearing, with laborers busily pitching additions.

Others were gathering fallen branches by the forest wayside, not yet brave enough to wander amongst the shaded woodland.

Half a score of campfires were lit, in spite of the downpour.

Smoke barreled towards the pixie’s hiding spot.

Wagons lined the perimeter of their encampment, and they tethered their horses, allowing them to graze.

By Heather’s estimate, there was a surplus of a hundred men assembled.

She added her hand to Skye’s on the fern, searching for Mason among them.

The solid weight of Skye’s palm landed on the base of her spine, lending her comfort.

A soldier lumbered over, precariously close to the patch of ferns.

He dropped an armful of twigs and bent to light it with flint, sending a wave of searing sparks flying towards their hiding spot.

Heather flinched as the red-hot ashes struck lichen and bark a hair's breadth away, leaving an indelible mark. Skye flung his arm towards the falling cinders, his magick colliding with and cooling the largest of the embers before they could set the greenery ablaze. She felt a surge of heat, before realizing a sage green orb of Skye’s magick shielded her from bodily harm.

Red hot sparks bounced off his shield, falling darkly to her feet, cooling.

It was clear the human’s axes weren’t the most pressing threat to the Wandering Wood. If left unchecked, fire could easily destroy the landscape in a matter of breaths.

“Rhoden, arrange for a troop to stand sentry.” The male speaking wasn’t Rhoden’s friend, but the prince of the realm.

Rhoden bowed, then leapt into flight with the practice of a trained soldier. On a flurry of wings, he sped off into the thicket of trees.